The Denarian Apocalpyse
by Shezza
Summary: Fourth Book in the Denarian Series: Harry Potter. Albus Dumbledore. Lord Voldemort. The machinations and plots of these three wizards have had unseen consequences that are, now, only just beginning to catch up to the Wizarding World. They are coming...
1. Prologue

**The Denarian Apocalypse - Book 4 of the Denarian Series**

* * *

_A/N: Ahoy, my friends. It's been a long time since I've posted a story. Originally, I had been meaning to work on an original series and work towards becoming a legitimate author._

_Frankly, it was too much work for very little gains and I wasn't having fun._

_I love writing. It's my favourite hobby. It's with that in mind that I decided to write another story. I was tossing up between a new Denarian story and the continuation of Resistance of Azkaban but in the end I decided to go Denarian. Frankly, the effort I put into the first three has made me quite attached to series and I already had a few good ideas as to where I wanted to go._

_Let's get the house in order.As of now, The Denarian Variation - the one shot I wrote that was inspired by Changes - is officially an omake and not a continuation of the series. This story will borrow a lot from what I had planned for it but I decided to set things much earlier. As to the state of that characters (i.e., did Amanda pop a baby out), well, that's still in question._

* * *

_One year after the events of The Denarian Lord_

The moment he took a step out of elevator he knew that something was wrong. He paused, his light-hearted emerald gaze sharpening and becoming as hard as flint. A carpet of rich crimson lay before him at the top level of this hotel. He had made sure that the entire floor had been cleared out and rented to him- as well as the floor directly above and below him as well. It had been for the best. His experiments could get a little noisy and although he didn't have any immediate plans to start tinkering with the fabric of the universe there was always a chance that inspiration would strike at the wrong time and it was practically inevitable that something would blow up.

"Can you feel that?" Harry Potter murmured to nobody in particular.

The Denarian Lord had finally reached the peak of his height. He was tall and lanky, approaching the end of his teens and moving onto adulthood that he had mentally reached long ago. His dark hair was messy and uncombed but he preferred it that way and his face showed no signs of the furious wars that he had once waged. His face betrayed boredom but his eyes was sharp and cold, hints of the terrible power that lay within him- power that was rivalled by few in the world.

"Something is wrong." The illusion of the Fallen Angel Meciel appeared seamlessly in his vision. She was hauntingly beautiful, with luscious dark hair and striking silver eyes. Robes of white and grey silks clad her body, swaying and fluttering around her in an almost hypnotic manner. Bonded to her host in a way that neither of them truly understood yet, the last of the Denarian Lord surveyed the area carefully.

"I know," Harry responded. He raked his hand through his hair casually, a force of habit that had never truly gone away. "There's..." He hesitated. "I can't really describe it. There's just something wrong."

"This feels familiar..." Meciel murmured. A pale misty trail of light began to eat away at her as she faded away from his sight, her voice echoing in his ears. "Where have I felt this before?"

Harry was pensive. It was unlike Meciel to forget something, Meciel, whose mind was utterly inhuman and capable of feats that surpassed that of every human that had ever existed. He was right. Something was wrong. For a moment, he considered simply turning around and leaving. Curiosity edged him forward and with no apparent sign of trouble apart from his short pause at elevator doors, Harry placed his hands in his pocket and walked forward.

His door was open.

Harry considered the polished wooden door carefully. There was no outward sign but at that very moment Harry drew on the power that lay dormant within him. Once, Harry had channelled this very power through an ancient artefact that had connected with the full might of the Archangel Meciel within the Void, allowing him to funnel enormous amounts of potent Hellfire, the chaotic energy that had fuelled his magic. That artefact was gone now. The indestructible _denarius _coin had turned into molten sludge, worthless and ruined beyond all repair. Meciel's prison had shattered, taking most of her power with it, and she had sought refuge within Harry's very soul.

Harry calmly slipped past the open door, his wand casually held in his hand. Books lay scattered on the floor, pages ripped and torn. Crumpled pieces of paper with scrawled writing covering them had been thrown all over the room. A bookshelf had been turned over and there were empty bottles of alcohol all over the floor.

It was exactly how he had left it.

Harry's senses, enhanced by the presence of the entity that dwelled within beyond human comprehension, stretched over the room. The power needed to truly harm him was beyond most and Harry had literally regenerated entire limbs and organs before in a matter of moments. If somebody had come here seeking to kill him then they were going to be sorely disappointed. With his soul and mind entwined with Meciel to the degree that it was, Harry wasn't even sure that the loss of his head would be able to kill him.

There was neither flutter of wind nor any sign of movement yet Harry froze as somebody appeared before him. A cloaked figure loomed above him, twice as tall and half as wide. Unnaturally slender, Harry couldn't peer past the darkness that enshrouded its face. Its tattered, frayed clothing was less of a robe and more of an item of convenience, something to hide itself from the world rather than preserve its modesty. Symbols dripped off the tattered cloak, scrawled on in swirls of crimson that Harry instantly recognised as blood. The symbols themselves were faintly familiar as well.

"Aren't you bold," Harry said quietly. His lips twitched as idly twirled his wand in his fingers, a rather unfortunate habit that he had picked up through his many encounters with Lord Voldemort. "There aren't a lot of people who could sneak past me like that. I suppose you've come to kill me."

The slender figure remained motionless and Harry felt a flicker of wariness pass over his face. Despite his confident smirk, something was setting him on edge. There was nothing obviously threatening about the intruder apart from a somewhat-creepy appearance. Harry's power roared through him with the rumbling and power of a volcano while the intruder gave off nothing.

Nothing at all.

Harry paused at that and narrowed his eyes. He could see the intruder but that was it. There was no smell emanating from it and Harry could _see _the bloody dripping from its tattered clothes. He couldn't hear the rustle of fabric or the sound of harsh breathing. Harry's eyes were drawn to the floor and a faint frown appeared on his face.

"You're not casting a shadow," he observed quietly.

It was almost like one of Meciel's illusions. Harry couldn't sense anybody nearby with the power to project something like this past his defensive spells. In fact, the wards hadn't even been broken. It was as if the figure had simply slid past them as if they hadn't mattered at all.

Motion flickered at the edge of his vision and Harry's wand blurred. As the unnaturally tall intruder slowly raised his arm, the wall behind him abruptly exploded under the force of potent destructive magic. Shards of debris whistled through the air as, at the same time, the windows exploded under the concussive force of Harry's spells and a furious storm of fire whipped up from the centre of the room. The intruder didn't even seem to notice as it pointed at Harry.

"Who are you?" Harry demanded, peering over the top of his wand.

The intruder said nothing but the fire raging throughout the hotel room suddenly died. Harry's eyes widened as the world around him shattered like the planes of glass on a mirror, falling apart in a tinkling display of colour. Reality twisted and bent as a new reality emerged from behind, something that was indiscernible. It was not black as it was absent of colour. There were no straight or curved lines, instead it was _something_else. Gravity held no effect on it yet there were forces in play that Harry simply could not describe, forces that were not so much impossible as they were irrelevant in the real world. Sound assaulted his ears yet it was something that he could not perceive, something that did not exist on any frequency in any place.

"_What_are you?" Harry asked quietly but his voice was lost in the orchestra of silence and noise. His wand wavered and with a start Harry realized that his hand was shaking.

Harry had pitted himself against the ancient might of the Blackened Order of Denarius and succeeded. He had fought a Drakon, a being of immense power that even now he would go out of his way to avoid meeting another one. Enemy after enemy had fallen before him. In the ruins of Hogwarts, Harry had ascended into something beyond human and had crushed the most powerful Dark Lord of all time. It was with a start that Harry realised that in all that time he had never once experienced the kind of primal terror he was feeling now.

Except, there had been a time…but that was impossible!

_'This can't be!' _Meciel muttered.

The space behind the figure was suddenly filled with a vast power that felt as if it could shatter the stars themselves. Harry's eyes widened as power, twisted, alien and unrecognisable but power nonetheless, flowed into his enemy. It was with a terrible start and a sudden moment of clarity that Harry realised that the one before him matched and surpassed the power of an archangel. The figure regarded Harry and something drifted into his ears- not so much a word or a phrase as it was a simple and terrible law of reality.

**You. Will. Die.**

From an outside perspective, it was as if the entire hotel simply disappeared under the force of a bright white light. A loud earth-shattering boom roared into the air and large twisted columns of metal fell from the sky, the once soaring building crushing down onto the sandy beaches of the resort island. A terrible plume of smoke rose up into the sky as a wave of roaring flames began to surge through the remains of the island, swarming over manmade and natural objects without mercy, killing hundreds within the first few moments of emerging. Nothing remained of the building and the hotel room, not even rubble.

Of Harry Potter there was no sign.

* * *

_Two Years after the events of The Denarian Lord_

It was with a disgruntled snort that Mr. Borgin watched the back of his last customer leave his store with a subtle air of satisfaction about him. The oily-haired wizard leered at the retreating Pureblood, his gnarled fingers clenching and unclenching as he imagined wrapping his bony hands around the neck of that smug aristocratic face and just _squeezing..._

Something snapped and Borgin glanced down. The wand he held in his hand had cracked under the pressure. Borgin eyed it with disgust and threw it aside with a huff of disgust.

"Ollivander wand my arse!" he growled under his breath. No authentic wand would have buckled under that amount of pressure. While bootleg wands could be just as useful as an official Ollivander wand, they were usually much frailer and tended to break much easier.

It wasn't like he could do anything about it, though. His benefactors had been extremely generous to him in this time of hardship. Under the leadership of Rufus Scrimgeour, the Ministry of Magic had flourished and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had cracked down on the sale, purchase and possession of illegal magical objects. Borgin had almost lost everything and it was only with the support of his fellow Purebloods, many who had accumulated debts to him over the years, which had kept him from sinking into poverty. It was unfortunate that many of the families he had made connections to and supplied were also coming under scrutiny and he knew that soon he would be required to bail out those who had bailed him out in short order.

Borgin began to stack the new items he had just bought. With a wave of his wand, the blinds to his shop were closed and the sign on the door flipped around. Borgin had only just begun to dust and settle his affairs for the night when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He whirled around, his grubby wand clenched in his sweaty hands.

"Who are...?" Borgin began with a nasty growl but his bravado slowly died away as he stared up at the looming figure in front of him. He gulped, especially as he noticed the symbols of blood dripping from the robes. "How can I help you, respected customer?"

The figure completely ignored Borgin, who shivered uneasily. There was nowhere else in the world where he would not rather be than here in the shop at this moment. It was the keen eyes of a practiced salesman that spotted the object of attention for the unnaturally tall figure.

"It's a beauty, isn't it?" Borgin offered after a few moments. The silence in the room had become stifling and he needed to do or say something to break that dreadful tension. "They say that that locket used to belong to Salazar Slytherin himself. Rumour has it that there are enchantments nestled within the gems its master unimaginable power..."

He made no mention of the last three owners of the locket, all who had been killed under mysterious circumstances. Borgin wasn't privy to the Auror reports himself but rumour had it was that all the life had been sucked out of the victims. One of them had been a recent graduate of Hogwarts and had been found shrivelled and wrinkled like an old man. How the locket had escaped detection Borgin didn't know. He also didn't know how the obviously cursed object always made its way back to his shop, avoiding the attention of Auror and law enforcement officials alike.

"I...er...I normally sell that it for 26 galleons but...for you, my friend..." Borgin's stammer trailed off as the cloaked figure abruptly turned his head towards him. "...you can have it for free." He finished weakly. "Consider it a gesture of good faith."

The figure acted as if it hadn't heard him and continued to stand there. Borgin wasn't quite sure how long he watched the mysterious visitor. The light emanating from the window had dimmed and the sounds of Knocturn Alley were slowly fading. Inch by inch, Borgin began to inch away from the one covered with symbols of blood and towards the back of his shop. He had a specially-made portkey for occasions such as this. The figure watched him but seemed to ignore him. To Borgin, it was as if it were waiting for something...

Then something changes and Borgin was frozen to the floor. Fear enveloped him. It was worse than Dementors. It was worse than the Dark Lord. The sheer presence of the one standing in front of him swept over his relatively fragile little mind and, without any effort at all, it broke him. Borgin collapsed in a gibbering, stuttering heap. His heart was racing and an intense pain swept through him. A heart attack assailed him and he writhed on the floor, a stroke wracking his body in a fit that he barely felt. There wasn't enough of Borgin left to see the world around him fall apart like a shattered mirror, nor did he recognise the flash of deathly green light and the brief rush of black and white.

It took Borgin less than a second to die. It did take his body a few moments to recognise that though.

Somewhere far away, another robed figure appeared from nowhere. This one, however, collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap and curled up, hugging his knees as tight as he could and muttering under his breath. A white mask covered his face, polished and well kept despite the haggardness of his robes and cloak, and a golden locket was clutched in his hand.

"Yes...no...what...it...what...pain..." the man mumbled without rest. "...you are hunted...yes...I will not fail...you protected me...thank you master...yes...of course...I shall...yes...you will be free, on this I swear..."

As the man rocked on the ground, maddened, insane but still alive after his deadly encounter, the mask slipped from his face and the battered, gaunt face of Rodolphous Lestrange was revealed. His eyes were bloodshot and his manic smirk was toothless but the last loyal Death Eater had succeeded where others had tried and failed.

His Master would be reborn.

He would save the Dark Lord.

The locket in his hand glowed, almost looking satisfied. Yet, below the tangible surface lay and undercurrent all too similar to that of a man screaming in agonising and eternal pain...

* * *

_Three Years after the events of The Denarian Lord_

Although Albus Dumbledore thoroughly enjoyed the presence of children, he would be lying if he were to say that he did not enjoy the brief moment of respite that the summer holidays bought with them. Running and managing Hogwarts was an exhausting feat and there was a reason that the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts was always taken up by wizards and witches of acclaimed repute. No lesser man or woman would be able to handle to job.

"There we are," the ancient wizard murmured under his breath as he signed the scroll before him with a flourish. A snap of his fingers bound the scroll and sent it zooming towards the small pile at the end of his desk.

Albus took the chance to lean back in his chair and a soft sigh escaped his lips. It had been a long time since his body had been ache free and every few years a few more seemed to emerge. His eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses as he surveyed the grounds of Hogwarts through his open window. A fresh breeze gently blew through his room and swayed his long, white beard. The sensation was refreshing and Albus couldn't help the gentle smile that crossed his lips.

Between his responsibilities of Chief Warlock, his position in the International Confederation of Wizards and his status as Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus rarely had had the time to simply sit back and enjoy the simple things in life. Recently, he had almost considered giving up some of his titles. He would remain Headmaster of Hogwarts as long as he possibly could, of course, but was there really a need for the extra workload he took upon himself? With Lord Voldemort dead, Albus was allowing himself to relax for the first time in decades and he could not blame himself for wanting to release a few of his burdens.

In his modest opinion, his contributions to the world had clearly earned him a small rest.

But then there was Harry...

Albus felt the familiar sensation of a terrible weight falling down on his shoulders. Only three people knew that Harry Potter had not in fact perished in the final battle against Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Albus had discovered the broken, battered but still breathing body of Harry Potter and had spirited him away, allowing the Denarian to heal the terrible wounds he had received. It was of little surprise when he discovered that Harry had left without so much as a goodbye less than a week later.

For some reason known only to Harry, the Denarian Lord had seen fit to allow Amanda Carpenter privy to the news of his survival. Albus knew that one of the tomes he had given Harry had been passed on to the newest Knight of the Cross but was still unsure as to what Harry was planning. He entertained notions that Harry had meant for young Miss. Carpenter to use the knowledge within the tome to grow stronger and Albus knew that Harry would never allow somebody to get close to him if they could not match- or at least approach- his strength. Amanda had blossomed in her last year and had become a powerful witch in her own right. As a student of Harry Potter and a Knight of the Cross, she seemed to be the person most likely to find the enigmatic Denarian and, from what Albus had heard, she was still seeking him out between her job as a Knight.

The third person who knew of Harry's survival was the former servant that the Denarian Lord. The _denarius _that the Fallen Angel known as Verrine dwelled in had been given to one of the students fatally wounded in the battle of Hogwarts. While the girl had made a startling recovery, Albus had kept a close eye on her. He had spoken to the Fallen only once and was satisfied that the situation was under control. Apparently, Verrine had been left with a specific set of instructions about the care and maintenance of her host and Laura Madley, now a Fifth Year, had grown up into a beautiful young girl, enhanced with the gifts that the Denarians gifted their hosts while still retaining free will. Verrine had heard news of Harry's survival from Albus himself, who assured the Denarian that any harm inflicted onto her new host would be returned to her three-fold, if not by Albus then by Harry himself when the Denarian Lord saw fit to hunt Verrine down- and Albus assured her that Harry _would_find her if she tried to run.

Although Albus knew Harry was alive, he had absolutely no idea where he was. Neither Fawkes nor his own considerable contacts had heard so much as a peep out of him. It was to be expected that Harry wanted to be alone but Albus had assumed he would have made contact by now. He was only faintly aware that something had happened to Harry in the final battle and he had been sure that Harry would approach for his help, help which Albus would have given freely. That he had heard nothing from the Denarian Lord didn't settle well with Albus. Although there was no proof that something was wrong, Albus sensed that danger was looming on the horizon. He had nothing to support that except his instincts, which had only ever steered him wrong a few times during the last century and a half.

"Am I a pessimistic fool, Fawkes?" Albus murmured.

Fawkes, the powerful Summer Fae, let out a warbled chirp from her perch. Albus seemed to understand her and smiled gently.

"Perhaps you are right," he said and stroked his beard. "Perhaps..."

If Albus hadn't been looking out the window at that particular moment then he wouldn't have seen the flash of light that emanated from the Quidditch Pitch. He paused in mid-sentence and a pensive frown crossed his face. What had that been? From her perch, Fawkes stretched her head and seemed to be as puzzled as Albus was.

Abruptly, a loud piercing shriek sounded from behind him. Albus whirled around as his eyes widened in alarm and strode across the room. On one of the many bookcases that lined his study lay a row of silver spindly instruments. One had begun to spin around on its axis as it wailed. The message was clear to Albus, who drew himself up and willed away the aches and pains of his tired old body.

They were under attack.

Another instrument suddenly joined the first, spinning madly and emitting large puffs of smoke. Albus could only watch with a thunderstruck as one by one the instruments on the shelf began to activate. A deep and powerful sensation fell upon his shoulders and Albus froze in terror. A deep primal fear had settled over him. Every cell in his body screamed at him in panic.

Albus was a powerful wizard, perhaps one of the best to have ever wielded a wand. Yet he was as human as anybody else and everything human within him was telling him that he should be terrified of what was coming. His mind began to spin out of control despite his best efforts and his heart raced, his veins throbbing and his head beginning to pound.

Suddenly, a burst of golden light enveloped his vision and something soft and warm nestled on his shoulder. Albus sought out his lifetime companion, who was just as terrified and afraid as he was, and together they sought out each other strength and resisted the deep and terrible urge to lie down and hide away from whatever was coming.

"Thank you, my friend," Albus whispered, opening his eyes as the world refocussed before him. Fawkes let out a tentative warble but refused to leave his shoulder.

The instruments kept wailing and whirring as Albus turned back and strode to the window. There was something out there. Albus had felt it beneath his panic attack. Something powerfully vast and so terrible ancient had come to Hogwarts. For a moment, he feared the worst and the smirking face of Harry Potter flittered into his mind, his eyes wreathed with the roaring flames of Hellfire. But Albus had encountered Meciel before and this power was not that of a Denarian.

No. It was something different.

He stared out at the grounds and suddenly knew that _something_was staring back. He didn't even flinch when the instruments behind came to an abrupt stop and was barely aware when they fell apart and collapsed to the floor. The sky shimmered and cracked as the almost impenetrable wards of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were torn asunder with contemptuous ease.

"Fawkes," Albus said quietly. He reached into his robes and pulled out his wand, the Elder Wand, and allowed his magic to enter his tired old body. "Shall we go and see who has come to visit us?"

Fawkes warbled and together they disappeared in a flash of heat and flame.

Albus reappeared on the Quidditch Pitch and Fawkes let out a terrible screech as they came face to face with the intruder. Albus himself was quite a tall man but the robed figure before him was even taller, a thin frame cloaked in tattered rags that dripped bloody from the runes painted onto it. It had turned its head towards him as soon as Albus had appeared and the Headmaster knew without a doubt that this was the one that had been watching him. The very existence of this thing brought out feelings of terror and fear from within but Albus was prepared now and easily suppressed them.

"I do not know what you are and who you represent," Albus said and power hummed around him. A heat began to arise from the Eldar Wand in his hand, as if the wand was anticipating the fight that lay ahead. "But this is my home and I will not be so easily defeated within it."

The figure stared at Albus silently and the Headmaster watched in horror as the power of his unknown opponent began to destroy the very fabric of reality around him, time and space and colour and sound shattering around him like a broken mirror. The figure did not move but something brushed over Albus, words that were less like words and more like unbreakable laws of the universe.

**Yes. You. Will.**

The sky exploded and the ground shuddered and Albus Dumbledore summoned the full might of his power and brought it to bear as he began to duel for his life.

* * *

Minerva hurried forward with her wand clutched tightly between whitened knuckles. The heavens roared in defiance and lightning flashed the sky, the terrible thunderstorm that had appeared out of nowhere continuing to rage unabated. Hail and rain fell down to the ground and every drop that hit the prim Transfiguration Professor was like the lash of a whip. A vast firestorm raged throughout the forbidden forest, terrible black flame raking through trees and denizens alike, writhing and twisting as if it were alive. A hazy mist had fallen over the school grounds and it was difficult for the professor to see where she was going- but she persevered.

As she approached the twisted and collapsed remains of the Quidditch Stadium, a sound began to rise over the unbearable din of howling wind. Minerva broke out into a run and brandished her wand, removing a pile of flaming rubble and approaching the source of the noise. Minerva McGonagall could only watch helplessly as the battered and bloodied body of Albus Dumbledore twisted and flailed before her very eyes. Sulphur reeked through the air as fire exploded from his eyes and a smaller but no less dangerous firestorm wrapped itself around the venerable Headmaster of Hogwarts and enveloped him. The last thing that Minerva saw of Albus was his back arching off the ground and his mouth open and roaring with endless screams before he was seemingly consumed by the bright, unholy fire.

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and the most powerful wizard of the age, had just been murdered before the eyes of Minerva McGonagall within the very confines of his own school.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey guys. Well….it's been so damn long since I wrote this. I actually had half of chapter 2 up for ages and I kept meaning to go back and work on it but between work and moving houses and generally being a lazy little shit, I never got around to it. I'm writing this purely because of a mix between "Heartlands of Time", "Awaken Sleeper" and the upcoming release of Ghost Story. All three created a large sense of nostalgia I'm hoping to fill with fanfiction.**

* * *

_Three Years after the events of The Denarian Lord_

_Present Time_

_Undisclosed Location_

The wind howled around the mighty desolate snowy peaks as rain and snow lashed down at the ground in a never-ending storm. The sun was barely beginning to peak over the horizon, fighting to get past the dark grey clouds. In a landscape of white, there was a single dark figure struggling against the fury of the storm. The weather battered at them, pushing them backwards with a vengeful fury, as they wade knee-deep through snow, seemingly on the road to nowhere. After a few moments, though, something began to show up on the looming horizon. It was nothing spectacular, a large jutting cliff face, but it seemed to hold significance for the figure because they stopped and considered it for a few moments.

Afterwards, the figure moved forward, clad in bulky protective clothing and carrying a strange tube on their back. Goggles covered their face on top of a thick woollen balaclava. It seemed that the closer the intruder got to the cliff-face, the worse the storm got until it was as if they could go no further, the very force of the storm pushing them backwards and away from the rocks. At the same time, a series of tiny red dots appeared all over the figures body. For an instant, nothing happened and then, hurriedly, the person's hands flew up and made several signs with contorted fingers. The dots never wavered but the figure took it to be some kind of approval because they carefully reached for their sword and pulled out it. A large swathe of silver light illuminated the snowy clearing as the figure held it out in front of them and waited.

After a few moments of waiting, the tiny red dot disappeared from the forehead o f the balaclava and the figure sheathed the glowing silver sword. The figure waited patiently while from seemingly out of a white blanket of snow a retinue of guards approached. They wore gas masks over their face, white camouflaged body armour and carried dangerous-looking weaponry, ranging from automatic weapons in the hands of lead figure to a large tank of unknown liquid on the back of the figure at the back, connected to the hose in his hand.

"Do not move," the lead figure commanded in heavily accented English. "If you move, we kill."

The guards fanned out around the motionless figure heedless of the terrible snow storm that raged amongst them, weapons trained and ready. At a motion of the lead guard's hand, the guards began murmuring under their breath. It was a prayer of sorts, in Latin, and it rose and fell in crescendo as the guard with the tank on his back moved forward. He raised his hose, his lips moving constantly in prayer, and held down the trigger.

A fine spray of transparent liquid jetted out and for a full minute the intruder was sprayed up and down by the hose under the watchful eyes of the guards. The temperature was cold enough that the water solidified and hardened into ice after a few seconds, leaving the intruder trapped in a cocoon of ice. After the minute had passed, the guard stepped back and everybody simply waited. Lips still moved in prayer as the intruder remained motionless within their cocoon of ice.

As suddenly as it had come, the snow storm that surrounded them dispersed and the ice around the intruder cracked and broke away into smaller pieces. The guards relaxed as well as they could, which meant that fingers lifted from the triggers by a hair's breath, and they stood aside and allowed the intruder to walk through them. As the figure approached the large jutting chunk of rock on the cliffs face, a tiny passage revealed itself that led into the depths of the mountain that shielded them from the fury of the elements from outside.

Amanda Carpenter pulled her goggles off of her head and wrenched off her balaclava with a relieved sigh as she stepped into the passage.

"That was awkward," she murmured to herself, her blonde hair spilling all over her back. She looked surprisingly warm and comfortable for somebody who had just stepped out of a blizzard.

Amanda continued walking down the path and the light from the entrance began to dimmer. The rocks were wet and slippery and there was a constant dripping noise that echoed throughout the man-made tunnel. Amanda held out her hands and with a simply flick of her fingers held out a palm of silvery flames that illuminated her path. The rest of the journey continued like this, lasting at least an hour until a wash of warm air rushed out to meet her as the young Knight of the Cross ducked under a ledge and stepped out into a large cavern.

She was greeted by the muzzles of at least a dozen automatic weapons.

Amanda ignored them as the guards surrounded her in a well-practised manner and glanced around at the cavern. Torches had been lit and bolted to stone columns that rosed to meet the roof. On her right was a pair of large wooden doors, a glimpse inside revealing several robed and hooded figures surrounded by a pile of scrolls and tomes. On the right was a chain link fence surrounded by barbed-wire. Beyond that, Amanda knew were the barracks and armoury for the guards.

"I am Colonel Vorrick of the Swiss Guard," the lead guard murmured dispassionately. He was the only guard not wearing something over his face, revealing the scars and wounds collected in a life-time of service. "You will walk forward along the fence until you reach decontamination. You will be tested again for a reaction from Holy Water. If you are found to have a reaction, we will shoot you. Walk forward."

Amanda obeyed, knowing that despite her status as a Knight of the Cross this man would shoot her in cold blood if there was any inclination that he might need to. As she walked, the Colonel kept talking while the other guards trailed after her.

"You will take off all articles of clothing and step in the chamber. If you do not, we will shoot you. Should you be found to hold any items of demonic or satanic influence, we will shoot you. Should you resist in any way, we will shoot you. If you pass decontamination, you will be given five minutes within the vault. Should you take any longer, we will shoot you. Should you attempt to bring out the cursed, we will shoot you."

They stopped outside a small room sealed by an airtight door. The Colonel turned around.

"Remove your clothing," he ordered without a hint of pleasure.

Amanda squirmed as she quickly disrobed. Her sword and wand were placed in a large wooden chest by a large bulky guard. As she carefully took off the rest of her clothes she shivered under the clinical gaze of the guards. In a way, she would have preferred if they had shown a reaction to the presence of a naked woman, even if their eyes had wandered. Instead, though, their reactions were worse- emotionless and well-trained. It made her shiver. Even Denarians had shown more of a reaction to her, hell; Harry had barely been able to keep his lecherous-

She paused on that thought as a pang of emotion flickered in her heart.

"Emotional activity detected," one of the guards murmured. He was sitting behind a series of computer monitors. "Blood pressure up, heartbeat increased..."

"It's cold and I'm naked," Amanda interjected with a scowl on her pretty face. She eyed the guard disdainfully. "Why do you think I'm having an 'emotional activity'?"

The sad part was that she saw no comprehension on the face of the guard. With a sigh, she finished disrobing and walked into the decontamination room as it was opened with a loud hiss. Amanda knew that she was about to be drenched in holy water, garlic extract and a multitude of other proven tests to determine that she was a human.

"This is going to be a fun hour and a half," she muttered.

A little more than an hour and a half later, Amanda stood fully dressed in front of an elevator. Her sword was behind her back and her wand was back in her holster but she stood there shivering. A warming charm would have gone over quite nicely at that moment, but she was pretty sure that a body _not_ riddled with bullets went over a lot better. She doubted that magic would be tolerated in any form.

"I will escort you to the Vault," Vorrick said as the elevator doors opened. "You will have five minutes inside alone. You will not bring any magical artefacts inside. You may bring the sword. You will be watched at all times. If you attempt to free on of the prisoners, the doors will be sealed and nerve gas will be released into the room. If you take longer than five minutes, a squad of men will be sent into the room with orders to terminate you."

Amanda stepped inside with the Colonel and rolled her eyes.

"You do know that there's nobody really left to orchestrate a rescue attempt," she mentioned casually.

"We only have 28 prisoners. We are still missing two," Vorrick replied. His gaze was firm. "We will remain vigil."

Meciel.

Verrine.

Amanda felt a flicker of irritation. "One of your missing 'prisoners' is the one that filled your vault," she remarked a bit too casually. "He's not about to break them out."

"Who knows what goes through the mind of demons?" Vorrick asked quietly. For the first time, a flicker of emotion filled his face- hatred. "You are young. In my experience, war never changes. The war of the soul_ always_ goes in favour of the enemy. It's only a matter of time."

The elevator began to descend into the depths of the mountain.

"What about the guards?" Amanda asked with arched eyebrows. "You don't seem tempted despite their influence."

Vorrick inclined his head slightly as he gazed at her dispassionately. "In the end, I too will succumb. It's only a matter of time." He turned back and watched the flickering light of the elevator as they descended past layers and layers of solid metal. "This is a lifetime post. When our duty is compromised, we are compromised. When we are compromised, we are dealt with."

Amanda held back a shiver and remained quiet. It was fanaticism at its worse, yet, she truly wondered if there was anything else that could hold back the massive power of the Fallen Angel host- even if they were trapped.

The rest of the trip was spent in silence. The elevator reached their destination and the two of them stepped out into harsh and glaring lights. Amanda took in a deep breath at the sight before her. She was literally standing in a hall of metal and concrete. On either side of her were large vault doors, the same size as the doors of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Security cameras watched their every move and Amanda spotted air-ducts, suddenly remembering the threat- no, promise- of nerve gas.

"Come," Vorrick commanded.

Amanda followed him as he walked through the aisle of vault doors. She couldn't even imagine what deadly treasures laid beyond them. It was, after all, the most secure and protected site of confiscated spoils of war. What type of weapons and artefacts constituted this type of security?

"In there." Vorrick came to a stop and motioned to one particular vault door. It looked like all of the others. "You have five minutes, Knight. I suggest you hold your sword. From past experience, it seemed to have helped."

The vault door began to groan and alarms blared. A whirring light flashed a Vorrick stepped back and began muttering prayers, his hands over his ears and his eyes squeezed tight. Amanda gripped the hilt of her sword and let the silver fire flood into her veins, a rush of pure light energising her mind, body and will.

She would need it, for as the doors opened Amanda gasped and fell to her knees. Her limbs trembled as something enormously vast pressed against her mind. Whispers of power and glory filled her mind- with them she could rise up to become a Queen, an Empress, the ruler of the world. With their power she could crumble cities and destroy countries. All she had to do...was...Amanda struggled against the strain, dark, malicious whispers filling her very soul. At the same time, she heard pleas, sobs and begs for mercy, promises for anything she wanted or desired, as long as she freed them from this horrible, horrible prison.

It happened in an instant and, in a flash of silver soulfire, it disappeared in an instant. Amanda panted and stood up on shaky legs, her mouth dry and her body exhausted. She glanced at the vault door, the insides covered by hundreds, if not thousands, of decorated runes and wards and protective defences against temptation. She wanted nothing more than to shut that door.

She couldn't. Not yet. She had to know.

Slowly, she stepped inside the vault, one hand clasped firmly on her sword. She knew what she was looking for.

Inside the vault was a small room filled with pedestals. On each pedestal were boxes made from thick layers of glass and in each layer of glass were tiny engraved runes and script. In the middle of this boxes, on the top of the podiums, lay a silver coin. There were thirty boxes in all and only one box was empty. Amanda stood amongst the Blackened Order of Denarius and eyed every coin carefully. She pushed all emotion from her mind, although her hand tightened on her sword, and walked through the aisles of pedestals.

Once upon a time, she had been a host- if only for a little while. She knew the sigil. She knew the power._ That_ particular coin was not here. That particular brand of Hellfire and influence was not amongst the coins here. There were no coins missing. Amanda double and triple-checked before the lights began to whir and the alarms began to blare. She spared one last look at the prison- for that was what it was- and stepped outside as the vault door began to close.

This had been her last hope.

"Is everything in order?" Vorrick asked her on the way up.

"Yes," Amanda answered hoarsely. Her hands were clenching and unclenching as she flexed her fingers. "Yes. Your security seems fine and the catalogue has been accounted for."

"Good," Vorrick mentioned blandly. His eyes remained fixed on the elevator doors. "It would not be the first time we have been hoodwinked and allowed a Denarian to escape free. It pays to have routine inspections from a Knight of the Cross."

Amanda nodded, still distracted in her thoughts.

"Tell me though," Vorrick asked as the elevator started to slow down. "I was told that you requested this assignment personally."

The Colonel hadn't asked a question yet Amanda felt as if she was being interrogated. She fixed him with a firm stare, her head held high. "I had something I needed to see," she answered vaguely. "It was something I had to check for myself."

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Vorrick asked.

Had she? Hellfire at Hogwarts, Harry's coin was still not accounted for- not that she had really been expecting it to be there. The last time she had seen Harry, he had risen up as a vengeful angel of fury, wings of pure fire sweeping behind him, searing the very air itself. He would not fall so easily.

That left only one coin left, but Dumbledore had vouched for Verrine's coin, claiming it was under his protection, and Amanda had let him have it after the requests of the Church had gone unheeded. He had obviously been powerful enough to seal Verrine away. Yet, even if Verrine had been freed, she still wouldn't have been able to replicate Harry's power, as vast and unique as it was.

The elevator doors opened and Amanda stepped out.

"Will you be back?"

"Perhaps," murmured Amanda, a faraway look in her eyes. "It's possible that you might see me one more time..."

* * *

_Britain_

Kingsley Shacklebolt strode amongst a crowd of curious muggles. His crimson robes flapped against his large bulky frame but he seemed to brush past the gaggle of bystanders with ease, as if an invisible force was pushing them apart. They didn't seem to notice him either and Kingsley ducked under a barricade and moved forward. He glanced upwards and frowned at the looming Dark Mark, its eerie green light unseen by the muggles as it hovered over the residence.

"Kingsley!" Tonks greeted with false cheer and a strained smile. Her hair flickered between colours and Kingsley was instantly on guard. "I'm glad you're here."

"Tonks," Kingsley replied in his deep voice. "What's happened?"

"As I was just telling these two gentlemen," Tonks gestured to a pair of dark-robed blank-faced wizards beside her, "our office located the renegade wizard Rodolphous Lestrange and sent out Aurors to apprehend him. Rodolphous is dead, Williamson has a shoulder injury and Harrison is out looking for the other half of his leg- splinched trying to avoid a killing curse."

"Auror Shacklebolt," one of the men in the dark robes said smoothly. "You can call me Mr. Grey- "

Tonks coughed at this.

"-Department of Mysteries liaison with the Office of the Minister," the man finished smoothly, not even giving Tonks another look. "We would like your full cooperation."

"Department of Mysteries?" repeated Kingsley, feeling surprised. "What does the Department of Mysteries have to do with this?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," Mr. Grey said smoothly.

Kingsley frowned and focussed on the man. He was dressed in a plain black robe, his features were non-descript, his eyes dark and his hair brown. He looked...ordinary. In fact, Kingsley narrowed his eyes. He looked too ordinary, like somebody was trying very hard to appear ordinary. There was nothing remarkable about him at all.

That was suspicious.

"Your Department has no authority here," Kingsley replied mildly. "This is the business of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Mr. Grey didn't look pleased at that.

"Look here, Kingsley, was it?" he began.

"Auror Shacklebolt," Kingsley corrected and drew himself up. For a moment, he wondered why he was behaving so defensively. "And you look here, Mr. Grey. Unless you have an order from the Minister, I'm going to have to ask you to leave- unless," he added, "there's something I need to know."

"Very well," Mr. Grey said after a moment. "I will return shortly with an order from the Wizengamot. Do not disturb the scene. My associate, Mr. Red, will remain behind."

Kingsley opened his mouth to object but the other wizard disappeared with a soft pop and a near-silent use of apparition. His partner, Mr. Red, gave a short nod of his head and strode away.

"What was that?" Kingsley muttered to Tonks, who shrugged.

"Anyway," she said, pulling out a notepad and flipping it open. "We were tipped off by a vendor of nearby shop- basic magical essentials, newspapers, floo powder, wand polisher and the like. He noticed a shifty guy coming in every so often, thought that some of his stock was being taken. Hit Wizards were assigned to the case for a routine inspection but when they located Rodolphous they recognised him and called for reinforcements."

Kingsley nodded and walked up the stairs, Tonks trailing after him. A pair of Hitwizards let them pass and they entered the house. It was obvious that there had been a struggle of sorts. Holes had been blown into walls and parts of the roof were missing. An armchair in the living room was on fire as members of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes swooped around it, trying to put it out. There was also a piano struggling in the corner as wizards held it down with magical restraints and a table was struck to the ceiling, quivering and refusing to come down.

"Oh yeah," Kingsley said with a chuckle. "Harrison was definitely here."

"He really shouldn't be casting animation charms," Tonks said with a sigh. "He's _too_ good at them- it's going to take ages to get that piano settled."

Kingsley smiled as he walked past the various witches and wizards patching the home up. One of them was carefully scorching the carpets with his wands, playing along with the cover story that there had been a fire. At the back of the home, Kingsley came to a pause. Dark crimson liquid had been sprayed all over the room, the bed had been turned upside down and a large hole punched through the room. Water gushed from behind a localised bubble-charm from a broken pipe within the wall.

"And there he is," Tonks muttered. "One of the last."

Two Healers in white robes were waving their wands over the body. It was barely recognisable, its limbs twisted and mangled, chest caved in and head squashed against the floor. Kingsley winced and Tonks shook her head.

"That piano really made a mess of him," she said with a wince. "Hurts to look at him."

Kingsley hid his cringe behind a mask of professional curiosity. Rodolphous thin and gaunt but he still seemed to have had a bit of magical power behind him if the ruins around him were any indication.

"According to this, Williamson said that Rodolphous was mad," Tonks read off of her notebook. "He started ranting when they came to get him, "the beginning of the end" and "they are coming" and the like." She cleared her throat. "He _was_ mad, right, boss?"

Kingsley said nothing but the appearance of Mr. Random Colours 1 and 2 made a little more sense. Voldemort had returned more than once and Kingsley didn't even want to think about what a third war would look like, especially not with Harry Potter dying at the end of the last one and Albus Dumbledore killed less than a week ago...

"I don't like it," Kingsley told Tonks quietly. "Dumbledore is killed then a week later we have a Death Eater sprouting off nonsense about 'they are coming?' Death Eater's aren't exactly reliable sources of insanity but add our sniffing Unspeakable friends to the mix and we have one hell of a coincidence."

Tonks made a noise in the back of her throat that could have been agreement.

Kingsley watched as the Healers performed their diagnostic charms on the body. A moment later, the door to the house was opened and Kingsley sighed, knowing what was about to happen. Despite the fact that Rufus used to be one of them, he was tied down by the politics of the office as much as anybody. If the Unspeakables wanted something then it looked like they were going to get.

"That's enough," Mr. Grey commanded as he strode in the room. He was followed by several wizards and witches, all hidden underneath the powerful concealing magic that their leader wore. "Healers, stop. We are taking command of this crime scene. Mr. Blue, would you kindly escort our Auror friends out?"

Kingsley watched with just a hint of frustration on his face as the Unspeakables began to take over the building, escorting his people out and gathering any evidence that had been collected. He watched Tonks begrudgingly hand over her notepad.

"I was unaware that the Department of Mysteries even had an operational force," Kingsley said conversationally. "I thought you were more research-based."

Mr. Grey smiled thinly. "We are the ones the Department sends when it wants to ensure that our research is able to be carried out without interference."

"I see," Kingsley paused. "I apologise if I seemed rude before. If you at least tell me what you're looking for then perhaps we can help."

Mr. Grey considered him for a moment. "Goodbye, Auror Shacklebolt," he said at last.

"Goodbye, Mr. Grey," Kingsley knew enough to at least be polite. Rufus would not be happy that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been shunted to the side on the capture and death of one of Britain's last Death Eaters- something that may have occurred because of his manners.

As Kingsley and Tonks began to leave the house, the metamorphmagus ducked back inside the room for a moment. "Mr. Grey!" she called.

The Unspeakable turned and eyed her inquisitively.

"Quentin Tarantino called," she said with barely a smirk. "He wants his poorly-disguised codenames back."

"Get out, Auror Tonks," Mr. Grey said.

Tonks probably didn't help either, Kingsley mused.

* * *

_Darkness. Howling torrents of power, alien and unknowable, faced him and engulfed him. The Elder Wand in his hand was burning, searing into his skin as it grew hot from the strain of the battle. A bird screeched by his ear, Summer Fire joining his own and pushing back the darkness. _

_Fire. Sulphur. Exhaustion._

_A voice. A face. A friend._

Albus Dumbledore's eyes snapped open as he abruptly woke up. The clean crisp linen beneath his body felt cool along his tired and aching body. Despite that, he felt energised and refreshed. It had been quite a while since he had had the chance to really flex his magical might, the adrenaline and sheer power of holding his wand revitalising his tired old bones. He cleared his throat, his eyes focussed on his pillow, and did not move as he spoke.

"Good morning," he murmured quietly.

"Good _afternoon_, old man," a hoarse, throaty voice answered back. "You've slept for a while."

"Ah," Albus uttered. He remained still. "Has it been long?"

"A week," the voice answered. "The world thinks you're dead."

"Indeed," Albus murmured. He could sense his wand lying close by. "I assume that I am to remain amongst the living for a little while longer then?"

"Probably not," the voice sounded amused and it chuckled, a laugh that degenerated into a series of loud hacking coughs. "Although it's not going to be me that'll kill you. I see that you met our lovely new friend. Strong, no?"

"Very," Albus agreed. He sat up, stretching his arms and pulling a rather ridiculous night cap off of his head. "A furry green frog. I'm touched, Harry." He turned his head and his eyes, which had began to twinkle furiously, went wide with undisguised shock.

The mangled and tattered remains of a human being stared back at him, its cracked and split lips turning upwards. A stump for a hand absently scratched at a balding head of lank, dark hair, while the other twirled his wand between two fingers- the rest cauterised or missing. Splotches of blackened flesh covered his exposed skin. Perhaps the most significant detail was his face. A single emerald eye stared back at him from under his fringe. The other eye was gone and its place was a small ball of revolving fire, swirling lazily within the eye socket.

"I know, I know," said Harry, a twisted and unpleasant smile contorting his mangled face into something hideous. "You'll have to forgive my composure. It seems that I'm just _falling to pieces_ at the sight of you."


End file.
